Somebody to Love(30)

“Nope. Not married.”

“And how old is your son again? It is a boy, right?”

“Nicky’s three.”

“Are you seeing anyone these days? It must be hard, because who wants a single mom?”

Finally, the reception began in earnest. Parker glanced around for a safe haven, hoping to see a friendly face somewhere. One of her uncles—Louise’s husband—had always been nice, but the last time she’d seen him, he’d hugged her a little too long, his hand a little too low on her back.

Still no Harry. He wouldn’t miss a family wedding—or the chance to remind people who paid for it—and last she knew, he was coming. For a second, she indulged in the fantasy that she and her father were close. That they’d sit together today, that he’d dance with her and tell her she was the prettiest girl in the room. He’d come to Grayhurst after the wedding and play Candy Land with Nicky, read him books until her son fell asleep. Then she and her dad would watch something manly on TV, because Harry loved war movies. Saving Private Ryan. She’d make popcorn.

Right.

She should’ve brought a date. Ethan would’ve come, and Lucy would’ve loved to have babysat. She could’ve hired an escort, like in that movie she’d fallen asleep on a few weeks ago. But needing armor and actually admitting you needed armor were different things.

A drink, however, was definitely in order.

“Hello,” she said to the bartender, smiling. “I would like a very strong martini with three olives and a smidge of brine.”

“Belvedere okay?” he asked.

“How about Stoli Elit? Got any of that?” she said. It was her father’s favorite.

“You have good taste,” he said.

“Got that right, buddy,” she answered, grinning. She gave him a fifty as a tip, knowing half her relatives would fail to tip him at all. Rich people. Sucky tippers.

The martini went down as it should, icy cold and so smooth she barely noticed.

“Parker! What are you doing, just standing there?” It was dear Cousin Regan, dragging her fiancé behind her.

“I’m taking it all in,” Parker said.

“You haven’t met Rob, my fiancé, have you?” Regan asked.

“We met last night,” Parker said, nodding at him, the poor guy. “Hello again.”

“So, like, our wedding?” Regan said. “I’m thinking Manhattan? Like…the Pierre? Right, Rob?”

Parker nodded, feigning interest. This would be Regan’s third engagement, and if it followed suit, it should be over in, oh, about an hour. Regan enjoyed upstaging other people’s weddings.

“And how are your little books doing?” her cousin asked, nudging Rob with her elbow.

“They’re doing great. The last one came out at number five on the Times list,” Parker said.

“Rob, Parker writes those strange little books about the angels,” Regan said in mock explanation. “They’re very…um…precious?”

“So glad you like them,” Parker said. “Excuse me for one second.” No point in hanging around Regan, who’d recently posted a vicious review of The Holy Rollers and the Blind Little Bunny on Amazon. She’d forgotten to use a screen name, however. Or maybe she hadn’t.

Regan’s whisper, loud enough to ensure she was heard, followed Parker. “Those books? They, like, make you want to hurl. And her mother? On her fourth rich old man. Seriously.”

The thing was, Regan couldn’t say anything about her books that Parker didn’t already think herself. The books were a joke, it was true. That they were bringing Save the Children some serious money didn’t matter to the Coven.

As for Althea, well, it was also true.

“How about another one of these?” she said to the nice bartender.

She sidled through the crowd, saying hello here and there, making her way out of the throng. She had to stay; if she left, it would be an admission of defeat. But hey. She could have a quiet moment. The thing about having a three-year-old…the only time he didn’t talk was when he was asleep, and the questions these days! Why, Mommy? Why? Why? Why not? Why? She smiled. Maybe she’d give Ethan a call, see how their wunderkind was doing. So much for not wanting to talk to anyone. A friendly, nice person…she would love to talk to a friendly, nice person. But these mean people? They sucked.

Seemed as if the martinis were having the desired effect. That bartender knew what he was doing, yes, sir.

She wandered into the foyer—well, a foyer, because this place was huge. It was less crowded here, and oh, perfect. A small, secret staircase leading up to the second floor.

Parker went up, not spilling a drop of martini because hey! She was a Miss Porter’s grad, thank you very much! Stellar education and social graces. Also, the drink was nearly gone.

At the top of the staircase was a long hallway blocked by a velvet rope. Parker sat down a few steps from the top. From here, she could see not only the foyer, but the guests going in and out of the ballroom. Esme, despite being Bridezilla, was beautiful in her crystal-beaded dress, and certainly, as settings went, it didn’t get better than Rosecliff, if you liked ostentatious excess, which the Welles family certainly did. Everyone was dressed to kill, and laughter and squeals floated up.

Oh, bugger. A dark-haired man had spied her staircase and was heading up. Parker looked into her purse, planning to make that phone call and avoid conversation. But the man stopped.